


an exercise in mindfulness

by vesperthine



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 11:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16852942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine
Summary: A late Friday night.





	an exercise in mindfulness

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [en övning i mindfulness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12565032) by [vesperthine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine). 



> two months in the making, but now we're done with the translation of my first ever skandi smut! the biggest of _thank you_ 's to darling [mynameisnotthepoint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnotthepoint/) for helping me out with translating; you're invaluable ♡ 
> 
> and to everyone else: enjoy! ♡

He has almost fallen asleep, anchored by the home-y smell and the cosy warmth under the duvet. Enveloped in his own and Isak’s scents, all muscles in his body have finally relaxed. The evening shift always drains him more than he expects. Everything, from his shoulders to the soles of his feet, hurts after being on his feet from four o’clock in the afternoon; so sore and throbbing that, when he finally came home, he’d deflated. He’d just hung up his jacket, and plopped onto Isak’s lap − who’d been sitting at the kitchen table, writing up a lab report − and just closed his eyes for a bit.

They’d talked about going a bit further than just the usual blowjobs tonight, but that plan had gone out the window as soon as Jonas called. He urged Isak to brave the stormy autumn weather and go to a party in Løkka. And Even just couldn’t muster up the energy to join them. The little voice in his head that told him that it would have maybe been better to join them for a bit to avoid falling into a rut had protested, but the screaming emanating from his sore feet had been louder.

So when Isak had left − after a quick finger comb and an even quicker kiss − Even had stayed behind in the flat. Watched a few episodes of _Murder, she wrote_ , until he could no longer keep his eyes pried open. Only had the energy to brush his teeth and fall headfirst into bed. Their little sanctuary, under the striped duvet and the pillows which had followed Isak from the flat share. Which had become such a fixture in their lives that, even though they were riddled with bobbles from tumbling in the washing machine, it never even crossed their minds to throw them out.

Even rolls onto his stomach and closes his eyes again. Lets his body sink a bit further into the mattress just as he hears a key turning the lock on the front door.

He cracks one eye open. The light from the stairway seeps in and Isak’s silhouette steps over the threshold. Once inside, Isak kicks off his shoes and pushes them into position. He almost loses his footing afterwards, and one of his hands hits the wall with a smack. There are a few curses and Even smirks when he hears Isak shush himself; then, Isak disappears into the bathroom.

Even jolts when he drifts out of sleep again − to Isak’s toothpaste breath tickling his neck.

“Are you awake?”

Even moves his head a bit. The light from the street lamps filters through the curtains and illuminates one half of Isak’s face, leaving the other in the shadows. “I am now,” he whispers back. Gets one of his hands out from under the duvet to stroke Isak’s arm. “Did you have a good time?”

“I did.” Isak hasn’t even taken off his snapback and his jacket, and when he lifts up a corner of the duvet and wedges his hands under Even’s chest, they’re still cold from the November night. His jacket rustles a bit. “But I missed you.”

It makes the hairs on his arms stand up, and when Isak’s hands slide underneath his shirt, heat starts pooling in his stomach. It’s a pleasant feeling, a good one, even though Even is still so exhausted. So he just focuses on Isak’s teeth, which carefully close around a vertebra in his neck, and on the fingers that simultaneously skim the seam of his boxers, sneaking into them at regular intervals.

The teeth disappear, and for a few moments, Isak’s breath is the only sound on earth.

“Even?”

“Yeah?”

He swallows, and Isak comes even closer. Kisses his neck, and lies down half on top of him, still above the duvet. Isak’s breath is moist against his ear, and it makes his blood flow so close to the surface that it feels like electric currents are running through the utmost layer of his skin.

“I know that you’re really tired. And you don’t have to do anything yourself. But would you let me fuck you?”

These whispered words are enough to make Even shiver. His body feels heavy and tender, and he’s sunk so deep into the mattress that he would rather not move anymore. Not before tomorrow morning, that is. But. They had talked about it earlier. And the thought of feeling Isak’s body against his own − inside him in that way, in this moment − makes his whole being vibrate.

He nods; Isak’s chin rasps against the shell of his ear. “Yes,” he whispers, and hears how Isak has to gasp for air.

“Like this?” he asks, breathless, and draws back a bit. “Just like this?”

Even nods again. Breathes out something resembling an answer, and gets a longer kiss just under his jaw in return.

He gets himself into a slightly more comfortable position, still too tired to make any more of an effort. Instead, he keeps one eye open as Isak takes off his clothes. The jacket, snapback and t-shirt make their way onto the floor. The light from the street lamps falls onto his shoulders, back and sides. Highlights the way those muscles play under his skin. Illuminates the golden hairs on his arms, makes them shimmer in the dark. Even draws a breath; his heart speeds up , making his blood spread into every crevice of his body, pumping it steadily between his legs, where his erection is lying pressed against the mattress.

It’s been more than a year, and Isak still has the same, breathtaking effect on him, making him feel like he is in free fall, just like every other time.

Isak’s jeans follow, as do his boxer briefs, and then he goes to grab the lube and condoms from the bedside table drawer. With a shiver, Isak crawls under the duvet and lies down next to Even. So close that the tips of their noses are almost touching each other; cold against warm. Isak’s exhales, moist and minty, touch his upper lip in little puffs of air.

“There.”

Isak’s eyes, forest green in the golden light, are a bit unfocused. But he’s not black-out drunk. Just moderately buzzed and happy, the usual after two beers and a walk home. Even lets his fingers slide through Isak’s hair. The tips are damp and his skin smells wonderful, like air after a burst of rain.

Saturated with oxygen and full of life.

Even strokes his cheek. “There.”

Isak pushes the hand with the condoms and the lube under the grey pillow and pulls Even close. “You’re so warm,” he mumbles, and sighs, happy. “And fuck, you smell so damn good.”

“Nice. You’re cold.”

“Mhm. I know. Sorry.”

They stay like that for a bit, just breathing each other in, while Isak gets more warmth into his skin. He pushes his head under Even’s chin and nudges his cold nose into Even’s throat. Almost like a cat looking for cuddles. For a moment, Even thinks he’s asleep, but then light stubble rubs against his cheek and Isak’s searching mouth against his own.

It’s always gentle at first. Warm, dewy lips against his own, a soft tongue lightly moving against his own. Sharp teeth meeting with a click, and heavy breathing. Then, Isak presses his whole body up against his; threads his fingers into his hair, the other makes its way into his boxers and takes hold of his hip to pull Even closer. Massages and squeezes him, lets his fingertips trail further down to more sensitive skin, and all of Even shakes at his touch.

With his own hands, he grips the blue pillow under his head; lets Isak take control for a while. Just lets him do what he wants with him. It’s nothing they’ve really talked about, but to Even it’s not something they have to spell out in explicit terms. He’s happy to let Isak guide him onto his stomach again, and lie down half on top of him, without it bothering him in the slightest.

Especially right now, when he doesn’t have the energy to initiate anything himself.

“Alright?”

Even nods and closes his eyes. The cold slips through the slit under the blanket when Isak pulls down Even’s boxers and disentangles them from his legs. For a moment, the cold air creates a tangible distance between them, but then Isak is back; warm and heavy and noticeably hard against him.

“Still sure?” Isak asks again, and stretches his arm out under the grey pillow. Gets out the bottle, pumps a generous amount into his hand and places his hand at the end of Even’s spine.

Even nods again.

Isak makes a satisfied humming noise at the back of his throat, and presses his mouth behind Even’s ear. His heavy breaths against Even’s skin make Even’s whole body vibrate, while his fingers start moving further down. Small, circling motions, that stall for a moment at his tailbone, and the lube is a bit cold on his skin, before they continue their way down.

He takes a deep breath. Tightens his grip around the pillow.

And presses it against his mouth just as Isak pushes his fingers into him.

Two at once, all the way in.

However many times they do this, it still feels like an intrusion. An intrusion of the best kind, one that affects him in a way few other things do. The fingertips that press against his prostate and make his whole body go immobile – his heart, brain, lungs, everything – are one of the only things that can make every one of his sensory neural pathways migrate to the outer layers of his skin. They make goosebumps appear on his arms, legs, neck, everywhere. And even though he tries to contain it, a deep, reflexive moan is pressed out of him. It’s drawn out from below his diaphragm, pulled by a phantom hook; Isak’s fingers pushing inside him tip over a domino brick and the reaction that follows is unstoppable, has to find a way out somehow.

Either as a moan, an utterance, or, like now, both.

Behind him, Isak changes his position a bit, wedging a knee between Even’s legs. He is warm and very turned on, pressed up against the back of Even’s thighs. The pulsing between his own legs grows even stronger, almost at the verge of being too much to give in and move in time with it. Isak puts just a bit more pressure there, right on the spot he knows that Even can’t handle having it. Sweat breaks out on Even’s back, his balls draw up against his body, and he knows that Isak can feel Even getting warmer and tighter around his fingers.

It’s impossible to keep quiet, to cling to his senses. Even lets out another moan.

His hips lift off the mattress automatically as soon as Isak’s other hand wedges itself under him. Takes hold of him quickly. Moves up and down, making everything wet and slippery and verging on the edge of too much, only to then, to Even’s great disappointment, disappear again.

“Everything alright?” That same question, every time. At the moment, it’s teasing, but it’s always sweet. “Can I go on?”

Even nods, biting his lip to stop himself from letting out a whine when Isak’s fingers disappear as well. Not because it hurts. On the contrary, it’s just a purely primal reaction, one calmed by the fact that Isak’s hand doesn’t leave. It caresses his lower back gently, moves up under his t-shirt to his sweaty shoulders and down along his sides. At the same time, Isak drunkenly fumbles with the condom.

Even uses the little pause to fill his lungs up with air. He focuses on Isak’s hand, trailing across his back, down to his legs. Two hands take a hold of his legs, separating them. Isak’s thumbs caress the insides of his thighs, close to his crotch, moving gently up and down. And there is something about this contrast − between the firm grip that purposefully holds his tired and limp legs open, and the thumbs that caress his sensitive skin, blood running so close to the surface that every touch turns into a small electrical shock − that makes him lose his breath.

Something about those hands pulling him upwards, angling his hips so that, with one hand on Even’s back and a faint moan into his ear, Isak is able to push into him.

If fingers feel like an intrusion, then the first second of taking cock feels plain wrong. It messes with the world’s natural order, everything is moved inside and out, back and forth, and it makes his whole body light up in protest, before it relaxes again. Even if he were to try, the guttural sounds he’s making are instinctive and totally out of his control. Isak positions himself a bit better on top of him; makes him still with his warm, secure weight and presses light kisses to the nape of his neck.

Even’s breathing is laboured, and he stretches his hand back to caress Isak’s leg, going against the grain of the hairs there. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, his blood is pulsing in his scalp; the only thing grounding him is Isak’s minty breath against his cheek and the heavy exhales in his ear. Isak’s hands trail down his ribcage, under his shirt, then, he crosses his arm around his chest and presses Even as close to him as possible; pushes as deep into him as he’s able to, both body and soul.

“Hi,” Isak whispers. There’s a softness to his voice, and Even has to swallow before he twists his head so he can get a better look at Isak.

“Hi,” he answers, barely opening his mouth to say it, and Isak lets out a boyish laugh, his cheeks a pleasant red. His eyes are all pupils and whites when he leans in and kisses Even again − and keeps the kiss going as he starts pushing into Even once more.

The first thrust takes Even’s breath away. The hand on Isak’s thigh is wrenched away to get a better grip on the pillow, and Even clings onto it like it’s the sole thing keeping him from drowning. His body’s focus is reduced to where Isak is pressing into him, as if there’s been a complete change in prioritisation and the only thing he’ll be able to feel until the end of time is Isak − his weight around him, his lips against Even’s temple, his arm around his chest, his hand trailing down and under and closing around his erection and stroking in time with him fucking Even.

Jerks him off, just as every thrust hits his prostate with such precision that Even almost swallows his tongue. His whole face, chest, body pounds with his rising heart rate. He’s probably flaming red all over − on his throat and chest and even some patches on his legs if it’s really bad.

But he couldn’t care less.

No other thoughts exist here. Just the knowledge that every thrust into him will make him moan louder, that the sweat on his lower back will run down his thighs. That Isak will pause in regular intervals, press so deep into him it feels impossible to take in more − and then stay there, carefully making eights with his hips and mumbling _I love you, Even, I really do_.

Nothing else exists. Only them.

The rhythm begins to falter and Even fumbles with his hand behind him. Takes hold of Isak’s butt and pushes him harder against himself, because they can’t stop like this. It’s just not possible to stop now, now that everything is just right − every thrust hitting where it’s supposed to, every twist of Isak’s hand jerking him off; the whining sound of unrestrained pleasure free of rational thought that Isak is making has never sounded better.

“Don’t stop,” he manages to get out, somewhere between exhales that are more like a steady stream of continuous moans. “Isak. Don’t you _dare_ stop now.”

A nod against Even’s shoulder is Isak’s only answer; he pushes his now warm nose against the nape of Even’s neck and increases his pace.

Even can’t stop himself from moving. No matter how tired his muscles are, he’s way too close now. Blood rushes in his ears, and his body is pulled taut from head to toe, like it only gets when there is no turning back, and the only way out is up and over. His groin is so heavy and engorged with blood that it’s oversensitive. His lungs are almost hurting because of his gasps. Even presses his forehead against the pillow, and draws one of his knees up. Gets it in under his body at a really awkward angle, but it’s enough to enable him to meet Isak halfway.

Isak moans when he realizes what Even is doing. For a moment, his hand stops moving, but starts up again when Even whines loudly, completely out of his mind and desperate to come.

“Move against me, Even,” Isak pants, his voice muffled and coarse, gripping Even’s shoulder with the hand he has crossed over Even’s chest. Pulls Even up against himself, giving him something to push up against. “Come on, baby. Use your back.”

This would, in a different context, feel belittling. But not here. Not with Isak, who is at least as desperate as he is himself. Who knows exactly how it feels when the body tightens up by stimulation from within. How it begins somewhere below the spine; a smoldering ache that spreads out into the tips of his fingers and toes, before it retreats like the sea before a tsunami wave − and then just surges, like a ten thousand volt shock through every synapse, until there is nothing left to do but draw one last breath, relax and −

Just lets himself be taken over.

Push his face into the crook of his arm and really feel it with every muscle and nerve ending in his body how he comes. Rhythmically and with a silent cry which gets stuck in his throat because of a lack of oxygen. How he comes across the duvet and Isak’s hand and around Isak who is still deep inside him. His leg is stinging and cramping up, but it doesn’t matter. Because everything screeches to a halt for a few incandescent seconds.

In these seconds, his head quietens down, like time and the world have been brought to a standstill,  helping to encapsulate this moment, as he comes and comes and comes.

Then, the slow-motion is gone, and he realizes he’s completely overstimulated. Isak’s hand gripping his shoulder has turned into an iron-hot branding rod, and Even pulls away a bit. But there is still more to get out of this. So, not giving a shit about his body’s needs, he tightens his embrace with Isak.

Urges him on.

“Go on,” he croaks, when he feels Isak’s hesitation. In the end, he hits Isak’s buttcheek, and only then, Isak starts thrusting into him again. It is and makes him feel way too much; like someone dragging sandpaper across burnt skin. But at the same time, it’s some weird kind of wonderful. It’s way too much, in way too little time and space and there is probably some symbolic meaning to all of this, but Even doesn’t have the energy left to go looking for it. He just lies there, face pushed into the crook of his arm and the blue pillow and lets out moan after moan as Isak gasps, moving closer.

The things they don’t have to talk about surface in moments like these. Isak, who’s panting behind him, closes his hand around the back of Even’s neck. Not in a harsh way, just with a steady hold that’s impossible to wriggle out of, while his other hand takes Even’s hip and pulls Even up against him. Carefully strokes his thumb next to where he’s inside Even. It feels like too much, and if his body had cooperated, Even would’ve tried to pull away again. Normally he would’ve pushed back a bit too, just for show, because Isak enjoys when he does that.

Just the fact that he gets to overpower Even, when and only when Even lets him.

But that’s not possible right now. So he just whines into the pillow; lets himself be engulfed by the feeling of _too much_. Just like pressing your finger into a bruise, and even though you shouldn’t, revelling in the feeling.

Because Isak is the one doing this to him.

And a few heartbeats later, Isak stills. Pulls Even against him one last time before he comes, without making a sound. The hand around Even’s neck grips a bit harder, then Isak crumples into a boneless heap on top of him and lets out a drawn-out sigh of relief.

They remain like that for a bit, just catching their breath. His head is pounding and Even wonders if he is getting enough oxygen when breathing to sufficiently feed his brain. But that can wait. These minutes afterwards, when the world slowly returns to normal and other sounds than their own gently join their reality again, are some of the best there are. To go from only hearing his own heartbeat to noticing that raindrops are pattering against the window panes again; to go from the only feeling being Isak still inside him to him realizing that he is in possession of toes and is able to stretch them out, too.

Sometimes, the afterglow of good sex is like an exercise in mindfulness.

After a small eternity, Isak finally gets back his strength. Gently strokes his sides, and carefully pulls out. It always feels so very wrong, like his rightful place is there, so close that it’s impossible to tell them apart, for all eternity. But they can’t stay like that, so Even just closes his eyes and breathes.

Focuses on Isak and the arms that are wound around his ribcage.

“Fuck, Even,” Isak says, low and serious, before he kisses Even’s throat again, there, on that exact spot under his ear.

Even makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, and Isak laughs a bit before he lifts up the duvet and disappears into the hallway. Normally, Even would have followed him, maybe gotten both of them into the shower, but that is not in the cards right now. So he just closes his eyes and doesn’t even let the light from the bathroom slip in between his eyelids. He just lies there, tired and fucked-out with new endorphins coursing in his blood, and lets Isak towel them both down and handle the practical stuff for a bit.

After Isak throws the towel in the direction of the laundry basket, he crawls into bed and shuffles close to Even again. So close that every part of them touches the other, and they breathe in each other’s air.

The tiredness from earlier, before this little coda, slowly makes itself known and Even stretches out his arm to pull Isak a bit closer to him. Isak obliges right away, pushes his nose into Even’s hair just as Even puts his head on Isak’s shoulder. He smells of sweat, a hint of smoke and of something that’s uniquely Isak.

 _Home_.

Even puts his arm around Isak’s waist, just to feel his chest move with his deep, drowsy breaths. “What time is it anyway?”

“Late. Twenty to one.” Isak strokes Even’s forehead and then the bridge of his nose with the pads of his index and middle finger. “So I’ll let you sleep now, sleepyhead.”

Even smiles against his shoulder; pushes his nose into Isak’s armpit and breathes in the smell of sweat and deodorant one more time. “Thanks,” he says, dripping sarcasm, and feels rather than hears Isak’s laugh against his arm.

“You’re welcome.”


End file.
